Hospes Las Casas del Rey de Baeza

The Sun burns at 5,800 degrees centigrade, of which a measly three degrees could currently be bothered to make the long journey all the way through space to a wintry London. Admittedly the Sun is 93 million miles away, a distance that would take 18 years to cover by airplane, but what was baffling Mrs Smith and I was that we’d only flown two hours to Seville and already we felt a hell of a lot nearer. In the time it takes to say ‘Hospes las Casas del Rey de Baeza’, we’d skipped forward two English seasons. ‘Just leave me here to sunbathe,’ declared a delirious Mrs Smith. I suggested it would be best to at least go through passport control first.

To us Brits the sun is a bleary-eyed friend that can be tamed with a glass of Pimm’s and a few cucumber sandwiches. The Sevillanos see things very differently. Right now the temperature was perfect, but in August the sun beats down so ferociously that you’d be wise to pack a hardhat. Like most of the buildings in the historic Santa Cruz quarter, the hotel’s dazzling white and yellow 18th-century façade was designed to repel those beautiful sunbeams back into Outer Space as quickly as possible. It seemed a bit unfair that our welcome was so friendly in comparison when we hadn’t had to cross the galaxy to get here.

We stepped in off the narrow street and through into a cool, shaded courtyard where the fronds of banana plants lolled in the still air and flowers cascaded down the sides of smoke-blue balconies. The house was a gift from the 13th-century Castilian conqueror Ferdinand III to his ally the Moorish king of Baeza, who had wisely chosen diplomacy and real estate over having his head chopped off. In 711AD the sand-laden Sirocco wind that blows from the Sahara had also carried the Moors to Seville, and their influence still lies heavy on the city today. An exotic hint of North Africa was traced into the hotel’s slender columns, its whitewashed walls and its somnolent, introverted atmosphere.

Our eyes struggled to adapt from the bright courtyard to the hushed half-light of our suite where thick hemp shades hung over the windows to keep out the sun. As the room began to take shape before us, the initial ‘ow’ factor of the low coffee table I’d just blundered into gave way to the ‘wow’ factor of contemporary art, black slate tiles and a bed with enough fine Egyptian cotton to robe an entire army of pharaohs. The muted tones were a soothing contrast to the vivid colours outside and, most important of all, the room had that unmistakable feel of Seville – a sultry, electric, moodiness that makes your skin tingle like an approaching thunderstorm.

I found Mrs Smith next to the little pool on the Soho House-style roof terrace determinedly soaking up the last rays of the sun as it sank beyond Seville’s gargantuan Gothic cathedral. I suggested a visit to the hotel’s Bodyna spa but my solar powered companion was by now fully charged and feeling hungry. The city comes alive after dark and its bustling tapas bars should be declared a World Heritage Site. It was the small hours by the time we decided we‘d had too much Serrano ham and not enough sleep, although as far as the locals were concerned the night was still young. The sound of soulful sherry-fuelled flamenco drifted with us down the cobbled streets back to the hotel.

It was only a short morning stroll to the Giralda tower, an icon of the city and once a Moorish minaret. Mrs Smith and I basked like lizards on the warm stonework and watched the day unfold like a scene from Bizet’s Carmen: Gypsies in headscarves and pavement-length skirts sold lucky heather, horse buggy drivers noisily played dice and newly weds emerged blinking into the light from the cavernous interior of the cathedral. Most dramatic of all was the busking flamenco dancer whose nostrils flared like the winner of the 2.30 at Kempton as she stamped, shrieked and shook in a mesmerising musical tantrum. I hadn’t seen a performance like it since I’d forgotten Mrs Smith’s birthday in 2005.

Just as Seville’s sunshine (and its smooth oloroso sherry) will leave your head spinning if you over-indulge, so the city’s colour and intensity is best enjoyed in delicious tapas-sized quantities. In between leisurely meanders along the banks of the Guadalquivir, past the bullring where Carmen got her comeuppance to the Golden Tower that once greeted treasure galleons returning from the New World, we’d sneak back to the citrus-scented serenity of Las Casas. Sightings of fellow guests were as rare as snowflakes, and with the staff taking good care of us it wasn’t so very difficult to imagine how the King of Baeza enjoyed his days in regal seclusion.

In the gardens of the Alcázar – the magnificent palace that Ferdinand III jealously kept for himself – we walked amid the pools of light that filtered through the date palms and the orange trees. Separated from the heart of the city by high stone walls there was only the sound of fountains to break the noonday silence. Even the King of Baeza would have been ever so slightly envious. I asked Mrs Smith if she would miss Seville once we returned back to London. She looked up into the deep blue sky with a look of contentment, as if the sun blazing all those millions of miles away was shining just for her and declared again with a smile, ’Just leave me here to sunbathe.’